


Hyacinths

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub, Dominance, Established Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-08 00:59:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4284606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inside, Sam’s the master, Frodo his sweet mate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hyacinths

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Sam may call Frodo "Master" in public, but in the bedroom, it's a whole other story. I want a fic where Sam's dominant as hell, Frodo's a natural submissive, and they both love every second of it” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=8673296#t8673296).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He lifts his hand to splay along Frodo’s back, pressing in against Frodo’s shoulder blades, and he marvels, not for the first time, at how _small_ Frodo seems in his big hands. At the slightest push, Frodo glides forward, and Sam guides him around the corner, into Bag End’s bedroom. The window’s still open where Frodo called him through, showing off the stars and the hedges Sam just finished pruning. 

They stop inside the round doorway, and Sam pulls his hand away before a shiver runs through him. The anticipation’s already made him hot, though it’s cool in the open room. He still can’t believe Frodo lets him do this. He still can’t believe Frodo _asked_ for this. But Frodo’s made it very clear that he _wants_ Sam to dominate him, and Sam, shamefully enough, is all too happy to oblige. He thinks of little else all day. Before this even started, he’d had enough daydreams of debauching his master to last a lifetime, and he comes up with new things he wants to try every day. Looking at Frodo practically makes him salivate, no matter the angle. He has the prettiest hobbit in the Shire. The most beautiful creature Middle Earth has to offer bids _Sam_ into his home, to do with... whatever Sam should like. 

Sam has to fight the urge, as usual, to simply grab Frodo, hold him tight and breathe him in, maybe push him down and make hard, fast love to him, like some sort of animal. There have been times when he’s give in. Today, he walks slowly around Frodo, eyeing him up and down, the dark curls on his hair to the shorter scruff on his feet. He’s wearing the usual—just brown trousers with suspenders over his white shirt, nothing special. He makes _everything_ special. Sam contemplates surging forward to rip it all away, tear the cotton fabric to shreds, and he knows that Frodo would let him. But he tries not to destroy Frodo’s things. So he orders instead, “Strip,” because he can’t trust himself to do it. 

Frodo looks shyly away, head demurely lowered, though Sam knows he’s just being coy. He doesn’t have much shame for a hobbit. He wraps his little fingers around his suspends and draws them slowly over his shoulders, until they fall down around his hips, emphasizing them, calling out to Sam like some sort of harness—Sam’s used them like reins or rope before, tying Frodo up or tugging him around. Today, Sam curls his hands into fists, breathes out, and tries to keep still and let Frodo finish. Frodo bites his bottom lip, teasing it pinker, wetter, his perfect blue eyes downcast but occasionally glancing up at Sam, full of lust and submission.

He undoes the buttons of his shirt one-by-one, and it looks nothing like how Sam usually stumbles out of his own clothes—it’s a _show_ —Frodo’s fingers are almost _trembling_ , like he’s hyper-aware of every little bit of skin he reveals and whom that flesh belongs to. His body is a gift to Sam. He hunches his shoulders cutely as he slides the sleeves down them, his arms drawn aside to reveal his flat chest, pale and smooth with two rosy little nipples calling out for Sam to touch. 

Sam resists, and Frodo lets go of his chewed lip, asking, “All of it, master?”

The title makes Sam _melt_. They should be the other way around. But they’re behind closed doors, and Frodo’s so _good_ at this: being sweet and beautiful and subservient to another man. Ownership comes too easily to Sam, who’s never owned anything, at least, nothing nearly this valuable. He tries to keep his voice even when he answers, “All of it.”

Frodo hooks his thumbs into his waistband and bends, sliding the thick fabric down his thighs, all the way to the floor, until he can straighten again in nothing, not even underwear. Just his gorgeous body. His pink cock, smaller and thinner than Sam, rests half-hard between his legs, covered at the base in brown fuzz, his balls ripe and tight beneath it. He holds his thighs chastely together and holds one arm over his chest as though to cover himself, then moves to step out of his fallen trousers. 

He doesn’t get the chance. Sam’s stepped forward. Sam’s hand shoots out to fist in Frodo’s hair, so hard that Frodo gasps, eyes fluttering closed and mouth open, but even that’s stolen away before completion. Sam wrenches Frodo forward and thrusts a hungry tongue into his mouth, claiming him right away. He traces the sides of Frodo’s mouth, licks at Frodo’s teeth, and sucks on Frodo’s tongue, while Frodo whimpers and submits. With a high-pitched moan, Frodo lays his palms on Sam’s chest and wriggles wantonly against Sam’s body. Sam’s already hard enough. 

He breaks the kiss and grabs Frodo’s wrists, his fat fingers curling so easily around Frodo’s frail forearms. When Sam pushes down, Frodo’s falls to his knees. Sam needs another moment just to look down at him, while Frodo looks up through hazy eyes, his back arched and his lithe chest rising and falling with each laboured breath, heavy from arousal. He looks particularly _delicious_ on his knees. Sam has the familiar urge to drag Frodo into the gardens and fuck him into the grass, lay him down in Bag End’s best flowers and make him truly _dirty_ , dress him in only earth and Sam’s seed. But they’re still _hobbits_ , and they can’t risk being seen. So Sam pulls his fantasies back to picturing Frodo inside, bathing in his cum, mouth open and tongue out with it trickling down his throat and pouring down his chin, his hair a mess and perhaps some draped across his nose. Perhaps so much that it drizzles down his body, between his thighs, clinging to his hole. Then Sam’s thinking of filling up Frodo’s body, and he’s not sure which end he wants to start with. 

He releases Frodo’s wrists so he can run his hands through Frodo’s hair instead, petting him while contemplating all the different ways to use him. Sam thinks of perhaps putting a collar on him, like a dog or a pig, and leading him around on all fours, dragging him to the kitchen and having him lick honey off Sam’s cock, or maybe having him kiss Sam’s toes and turn around to present his cute hole to his master. Those thoughts only make Sam harder, until his trousers are painfully tight, and Frodo has a hitch of breath. He leans forward and rubs his face against Sam’s crotch, then parts his lips and mouths at it, hot and wet. With his face buried against Sam’s rigid cock, Frodo begs, “Please let me suck you, master. I want you in my mouth so badly...”

Sam groans. It’s always hard to say no to Frodo, even at times like this, where he’s supposed to be in control. He pushes Frodo’s face back by the hair and tugs at the tie of his trousers, opening the flap to take out his cock. It thrusts into the air and nearly smacks Frodo in the face, while Frodo whines and fights Sam’s grip to try and push into it. When Sam doesn’t let go, Frodo sticks out his tongue, tilting his face back to push his tongue forward as far as it can go, and he laps at the veiled head, the soft, spongy moisture giving Sam another shudder. He’s too lucky. 

He keeps a grip around the bottom of his shaft when he grinds himself forward, rubbing his cock against Frodo’s face. He starts at Frodo’s nose, tracing down Frodo’s cheek, and Frodo keeps twisting to nuzzle into it, his hands reaching for Sam’s trousers to steady himself, and he licks away wherever he can. Sam swipes it across Frodo’s lips, then back again, pokes Frodo’s chin and draws away to slap Frodo’s cheek, getting too much satisfaction out of the slick noise it makes and the reedy whine Frodo gives. Sam slaps him a few times, Frodo looking dizzier at each one, and then he slides around Frodo’s temple to brush at Frodo’s curly bangs. Frodo opens all the wider and laps at Sam’s balls, then draws them into his mouth one by one, suckling on the heavy sac. It’s all Sam can do to see straight. It’s a struggle to pull back, but finally he manages, wanting to put Frodo on the bed. 

But Frodo’s quicker, and he dives onto Sam’s cock too fast. He slides right down it with ease, having practiced time and time again, no longer needing to worry about his gag reflex. Sam groans but doesn’t have the strength to stop it. Frodo takes Sam right down his throat, flattening up against Sam’s crotch, his face completely buried in it. The tight, wet heat all around Sam’s shaft is always better than he remembers, and he remembers perfection. Frodo hums for a moment, growing used to it again, and the noise vibrates up Sam’s cock. Then Frodo _sucks_ , hollowing out his cheeks to give Sam everything he has, and slowly pulls back, only to push forward again. There’s a sick, squelching noise and a spasm of bliss, and then he does it again, and soon he’s bobbing up and down on Sam’s dick like he’s never tasted anything better. Sam’s mesmerized by the sight of his pink lips stretched open, blue eyes half lidded, cheeks flushed. This is the sort of thing Sam used to dream of when he’d touch himself in the darkness of his bedroom, finishing to Frodo’s name. 

Now he has _all_ of Frodo, and with a great effort, he grabs Frodo’s chin, guiding Frodo off again. Frodo whines pathetically, but he lets himself go, Sam’s cock falling out of his mouth to bob in the open air. Frodo’s tongue stays hanging out of his mouth, his eyes glued to Sam’s cock, until Sam murmurs, “Get on the bed, Frodo.”

Glancing up, Frodo’s face lights. He obeys immediately, turning and stumbling shakily up to the bed, crawling on all fours. He still somehow manages to do it gracefully, showing off his body as he slinks along the mattress, the blanket messily clumped on one side and the white sheets wrinkled from being used too thoroughly too often. Frodo crawls right to the pillows and lays his head down, keeping his ass in the air, his thighs spreading enough to show his cock hanging between his legs. He reaches back to grab the plush, round cheeks of his ass, and he pries them open to show off his little hole, open and dilating. It’s obvious that he’s trying to hold it wide for Sam, but the puckered ring of muscles is still so very _tiny_ , like all of Frodo, and it makes Sam wonder, as usual, how he’s going to fit his big dick in there. Somehow, he always manages. Frodo smiles hopefully over his shoulder and takes more of his ass between his fingers, squeezing tighter and trying to stretch more of his entrance, so that Sam gets a peak of the pink insides and can see the wild fluttering of Frodo’s efforts. 

It’s impossible not to want Frodo. Sam could come just from this, if he stared long enough. But he can’t resist climbing onto the bed, sidling up between Frodo’s knees. His hands fall to Frodo’s ass, over top of Frodo’s fingers, and he squeezes _hard_ , just to feel the ripe flesh between them. Then he palms the plump globes a few times, and finally, he dips his fingers into Frodo’s crack and rubs the tips along Frodo’s furrowed brim. He rolls around it until Frodo is making lewd, keening noises and begging, “Master, _please_...”

Sam’s no crueler to Frodo than Frodo’s ever been to him. He knows what Frodo wants, and he obliges. He withdraws his hands, pats Frodo’s rear, and tells him, “Roll over.” Frodo instantly does so. As much as he loves being mounted, he’s professed a love for being taken face-to-face even more. Sam likes every which way he can take Frodo, but his favourite is also looking into Frodo’s eyes. Frodo rolls onto his back, his legs spreading around Sam’s, and Sam scoots up close, his knees slipping under Frodo’s thighs. He splays his fingers along them, rubs up and down Frodo’s soft skin, then pushes them back, bending them until Frodo’s knees are almost touching his shoulders. There’re enough ribbons tied to the headboard for just such an occasion. Sam ties one leg up, then the other, keeping Frodo bent in two and spread, his bottom completely on display. His cock is already leaking against his stomach. His legs are just open enough to show off his nipples, and Sam runs his hands over them on the way back down. He can’t resist just _feeling_ Frodo, running all over his body and up into his hair, before bending down to kiss him. 

When Sam parts their lips, Frodo quietly pleads, “Fuck me, Sam.” A grin tugs at Sam’s lips, and Frodo’s face flushes even more. He quickly corrects to, “ _Master_.” Sam rewards him with another kiss. 

It only takes one of Sam’s hands to reach into his pocket to retrieve the vial he keeps close, and the other strays down Frodo’s chest in the meantime, his fingers locking around Frodo’s cute cock. Sam gives it a little squeeze, drinking in Frodo’s gasp, and he cups both of Frodo’s tight, pink balls in his palm. He gives them a gentle tug, and Frodo whines, his arms bent back beneath his legs and fisting in the pillow. Sam’s already lifting up and pouring some of the vial’s liquid into his hand when Frodo whimpers, “More?”

Clumsily recapping the bottle, Sam tosses it aside, and it rolls along the mattress for later use. Then he returns his fingers to Frodo’s crotch, and he runs them greedily up and down between Frodo’s cheeks, spreading the cool liquid over his tiny hole. Sam gets it as wet as he can before trying to push one coated finger inside, which Frodo opens to take. 

His fingers always feel too fat for this, but Frodo never complains. One slips inside—his pinky, the smallest one—and Frodo gasps, whining and trying to arch up but constrained by his tied legs. His feet are held uselessly in the air. Sam gently draws his finger in and out, pushing a little bit deeper every time, always careful not to move too fast or push too hard. As far as he knows, he’s never hurt Frodo, and he never plans to. He watches Frodo’s face, already contorted, but awash only in pleasure. When Sam’s pinky is all the way inside, Frodo’s eyebrows knit together, and he whimpers so very cutely that Sam has to fight not to come in his trousers. He works Frodo’s hole instead, coaxing it open more and more, until he can slip his index finger in, and then he manages to poke a second tip at the entrance, and he can scissor it open. 

Even after he has Frodo’s poor hole as big as he thinks he can get it, Sam spends extra time slicking more liquid around it, poking pools inside. Frodo mewls the whole time, writhing and begging for it. Finally, Sam’s placing his cock at the ready. He pushes just the tip inside, shuddering instantly in ecstasy and listening to Frodo’s loud cry. He lowers down over Frodo, somewhat awkwardly with his hands slipping between Frodo’s legs to cup his face, and Sam kisses him lightly, but pulls away before he goes any deeper. 

He wants to hear Frodo’s voice. He starts to push inside with smooth, even thrusts, just a tiny bit of distance on each go, and Frodo’s eyes clamp shut, his mouth opening tall to _scream_. He screams the entire way through Sam clawing inside, until Sam’s shoved in to the base and grinding, just to be absolutely certain he can’t get any deeper. Frodo sheathes him so perfectly, hot and tight, even with all the preparation, and his hands snake out to clutch at Sam’s shirt, slipping around Sam’s neck, holding Sam down, his body trembling but his grip so desperate. Sam briefly debates tying Frodo’s wrists to the headboard, but he likes Frodo’s touch too much. He nudges at Frodo’s face with his nose, and Frodo seems to understand. He opens up so Sam can kiss him, warm and tender and _so full of love._

Sam loves nothing in the world like his Frodo. There are no gardens so beautiful, no food so sweet, not even elves so enchanting. He’d follow Frodo to the stars and back, if he could. It takes him some time to move, but when he does, he adjusts, trying to find that special spot, sliding shallowly in and out until Frodo gasps, and Sam knows he’s found it. He pushes against it again and again, giving Frodo all the pleasure he can. When he pulls almost all the way out, he still aims there. 

Tonight, he isn’t particularly fast, isn’t particularly slow. He takes Frodo _hard_ , not relentless but _deep_ , grinding Frodo into the mattress each time. His thrusts are fluid and constant. He makes love to Frodo and kisses Frodo in between his own panting, their tongues mixing together. Sam clutches at his shoulders, his hair, his cheeks. Sam’s moving without thinking. Instinct drives his hips. He fills Frodo up and leaves Frodo free, fills him again and kisses him through it, his stomach heavy against Frodo’s and Frodo’s cock pressing at his middle. He doesn’t touch it simply because he doesn’t have the coordination. All he can do is kiss and fuck Frodo. For now, it’s his entire world. 

“Sam,” Frodo moans between breaths, whenever he can, the pretext fallen all away. Sam couldn’t speak if he tried. But Frodo murmurs, “Sam, Sam,” over and over again, making Sam’s head spin each time. It’s torture to hear his name in such a perfect voice. Frodo always had a beautiful voice. He was always wonderful at singing, and he makes Sam’s name sound like the most beloved song he knows. Sam could cry from it. Instead, Sam just kisses him, presses their foreheads together, threads through Frodo’s hair and cups Frodo’s cheek and rolls into him, connecting their bodies, just like they were meant to.

If Sam could, he’d do this forever. He never wants these moments to end. But Frodo feels _so good_ and Sam _loveloveloves him_ , and before Sam can stop himself, he’s breaking. His voice breaks. He pushes Frodo into the bed and bursts inside him, spilling into him and pumping out one river after another. Sam grinds it in, and he becomes weightless, boneless, so hot that he can’t think, can’t see, and he might be moaning Frodo’s name, but he can’t be sure. He feels good all over.

It passes in a slow, tingling haze. His hips stop, his body heavy and satiated, crushing Frodo down. His head’s spinning. He’s panting hard, and Frodo’s still squirming against him, around him, touching him and begging him. Sam just lies still. 

Eventually, Frodo whimpers, “May I come?” His walls are fluctuating rapidly around Sam’s cock, but Sam doesn’t have the strength to pull out, not just yet. It’s a strange mix of pleasure and pain to stay inside, now that he’s coming down. 

He means to say yes, or maybe no, because he knows Frodo likes to be held at Sam’s mercy. Somehow he just winds up breathing, “I love you.”

Frodo groans, “I love you, too. Can I come?”

Sam almost laughs. He kisses Frodo’s cheek, and he forces himself to sit up, dragging his cock out of Frodo’s hole. He stares at the gaping, dripping mess he leaves, his seed leaking out around the edges amidst what’s left of the lubrication. It takes another of Frodo’s whines to pull him away, and he unties the ribbons, letting Frodo’s legs slide back and rest. 

Sam decides, “Fetch me some water first.” His voice is raspy, ragged. He’s parched but doesn’t think he can leave this bed. Frodo just smiles, like Sam’s commands are their own aphrodisiac. 

He pushes up, finally made clumsy by being fucked so hard, and he stumbles over the edge of the mattress. Before he can turn towards the door, he bends back over the bed. He dips his head into Sam’s lap and runs his tongue along Sam’s cock, licking up some of the excess cum and bringing it back into his mouth, swallowing lewdly. Then he straightens up, licking his lips and turning, and Sam reaches to slap his plump rear. Frodo yelps but smiles and wanders off, leaving Sam to collapse back in the pillows. 

He feels like the luckiest hobbit alive, made even better when Frodo returns with a tray of tea and seed-cakes, radiating ardor.


End file.
